


Please Restore Your System to the Time You Last Felt Safe

by vorkosigan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cap_Ironman Fanfic Remix 2017, Community: cap_ironman, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship is Magic, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Reconciliation, Remix, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Mental De-Aging, Tony May Be Slightly Woobified in This One, Tony Stark Gets a Hug, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: Post CW. Steve and Tony haven't talked in a while, but happily an alien invasion is in progress so they don't have to. But Tony gets hit with a mysterious ray and gets something resembling a partial amnesia: he thinks he's twelve. He thinks it's 1986. And he's more than surprised to see Captain America by his bedside when he wakes up.Written as a remix ofA Safe Placeby Veldeia, who summed it up like this:Tony is de-aged, and Steve is there for him—both during and after the ordeal.That pretty much applies to this one too, only it's mental de-aging.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Veldeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Safe Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635640) by [Veldeia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veldeia/pseuds/Veldeia). 



> This fic was written as a part of Captain America/Iron Man Fanfic Remix 2017. What I changed in regard to Veldeia's original was, I made it into mental de-aging instead of full de-aging because I don't really know how to write children (and this somehow seemed angstier, so of course I had to go for it). I was going to expand on the first part a little, but then it seriously got out of hand, and now it's huge (basically, I liked the de-aged Tony and couldn't let go of him). In the second part, I kept some dialogue lines and sentences from the original, but I did change quite a lot (still, I hope not too much; I hope it still counts as a remix). I did try to keep to the original idea.
> 
> Despite what's written in the MCU wiki, I assumed Tony was born in 1974, which puts him at the age of 17 in 1991, when Howard and Maria were killed. I think this makes more sense, in-universe, because this way it's logical that Stane would handle the company until Tony turned 21, which supposedly happened according to the movies (if I'm not very much mistaken).
> 
> Also I wrote this as friendshippy and platonic, with cuddling. But I suppose the second part could be read as pre-slash if you want to.

The first time something like this happened, many years ago, Thor had torn Tony's faceplate away, tossed it aside. Steve had never forgotten the second or two that preceded that – it felt like centuries of staring at the helmet, at the visor, not knowing what they were going to find inside. Really, it's almost a miracle how many ghastly visions a human brain can cook up in the space of two unsupervised seconds.

 

 _The boss is both all right and not_ , Friday had said a few minutes back; a voice of an, an... an electronic person, Steve supposed?... shouldn't be able to convey that much dismay. For a moment there she had sounded almost like a child.

 

 _It's like he's sleeping_ , _but not sleeping._ Steve's first thought had been death, obviously. It was like a morbid game of riddles. Of course the answer wasn't death. The AI would have known death. Coma too. _All his physical functions are normal._

Besides, something deep and mildly superstitious inside him believed he would somehow know if Tony died. It made no sense, he supposed, but there you are.

 

"We don't know what kind of beam it was that hit him. It would be for the best if you took him home for now," Dr Strange had told Steve urgently. Opened the portal, even, while the battle still raged around them. Steve still had a problem accepting all these facts (magic? _magic?_ oh, come _on_ ).

 

"Not hospital?"

 

"I'll get Dr Richards and Dr Cho. We'll come as soon as possible. I don't think this is a matter for a regular hospital. He'll be all right physically in the meantime. Put him to bed. If he wants to get up, let him. And... observe."

 

(And _observe_ , honestly, _observe_ , that must be the most irritating piece of advice in the history of medicine.)

 

Steve had stepped through. Through, and onto the floor of a sitting room in Tony's tower, where he now stood with Tony in his arms, looking down at the faceplate, at a loss for what to do.

 

(The second time something remotely similar happened, when you couldn't see his eyes you slammed your shield into his faceplate.)

 

 _Couch_ , he ordered himself briskly. Couch, and then remove the armor.

 

During the war, rations would often come in these big tins, their labels worn away or torn away in transport. You never quite knew what you were going to find inside. Beans, most likely, yes, but sometimes it was herring too. Sometimes it was condensed milk, of all things.

 

Steve had even considered the not knowing a little exciting; but that was then.

 

_Stay calm. One thing at a time._

 

"You sure are a regular mystery meal," he muttered as he put Tony on the couch with overabundance of carefulness that wasn't strictly necessary. He had a ridiculous urge to grab a blanket, cover Tony – armor and all – and just leave him be. Doing this felt wrong somehow . Invasive. The man had, after all, changed the override codes, and Steve didn't have the new ones (of course Tony had; of course Steve didn't).

 

"Friday?"

 

"Captain Rogers."

 

"Won't you open the armor for me?"

 

"My programming is unclear as to what I'm supposed to do, since the boss is not in any kind of physical danger, nor is he hurt. But if you care to try the clasps on the outside of the armor, I can guide you. Nothing in the coding is stopping me from doing that."

 

 _Clasps. That's right._ _Of Course._ "Please," he said.

 

And whether it was from the commotion or from the sudden influx of light, when he finally lifted the faceplate, two huge brown eyes were staring at him, fully awake. Tony blinked twice. _Something_ , Steve thought, gazing into the confusion-ridden face, _is not right_.

 

He didn't even have time for relief.

 

"Am I in some kind of escape pod?" was the first thing Tony uttered.

 

His next words were: "Why's my voice like this?"

 

Steve had taken his own cowl off and tossed it aside; now he unconsciously wiped the sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand.

 

And then, widening even further, Tony's eyes locked on Steve's face; in a voice unnaturally steeped in awe, Tony said:  " _Wow!_ " Steve's sense of foreboding burst into a thousand little pieces, like a punctured balloon; it was replaced by outright fear looming up from the depths. Something was definitely, horribly wrong. Tony's lips parted in an expression of an almost childish delight: "You're...", he paused to take an excited breath. "You're _Captain America_!"

 

Panic? Of course Steve's reaction wasn't panic. He was used to his blood running cold like this. He was used to his hair wanting to stand on end. But one thought wormed its way through his crust of calm. _In how many more ways can I possibly lose him?_

 

"I'm going to need you to stay calm for a little while, while I remove the armor," he heard his own voice say. Amnesia could be temporary, right? "Can you do that for me?"

 

"Of course," Tony answered, barely containing the excitement. Steve couldn't remember the last time he saw such a gleam in those eyes.

 

_What kind of amnesia is it, anyway, if he remembers who I am, but not that it's me?_

 

"Can you tell me how you feel?" he asked, as he found one clasp after another, pressing them mechanically; the _clickety-click_ of armor was almost soothing, but not quite. The familiar was supposed to be soothing, right? So why did the sound seem so final this time around?

 

Tony shifted his attention from him to the said armor; his face was a textbook in fascination. "How brilliant is that?" he muttered, apparently to himself.

 

_Observe. What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

 

"Do you..." Steve started, stopped. Tony raised his eyes. "Can you tell me who you are? Do you know?"

 

"I'm Tony Stark," Tony said, his voice slightly quivery, as if that one fact was a lifebelt to cling to. "I'm Tony Stark and..." He gazed around, his eyebrows climbing higher and higher "And there's something seriously freakish going on, right?"

 

Steve gave him a steady look; steady looks rarely failed him; if he died there and then, his eyes would probably continue to stare the world down, blindly but steadily.

God, he was so sick of everything.

 

"Very freakish," he concurred. "We are going to talk about it in a minute. Now I need you to..."

 

But Tony raised his newly released hands, turned them over slowly, this way and that. Studied them intently for a second.

 

"I'm senile," he said.

 

" _What?_ "

 

Tony met his eyes. He seemed to be fighting something down; possibly horror, possibly vomit (Steve couldn't tell).

 

"That's the only logical explanation I'm coming up with," he told Steve. "My voice is old. My hands are old. And I'm twelve. In my head, I'm twelve. So, either this is a weird dream, but I don't think so – or I'm senile." Steve was shaking his head – whether in denial of Tony's words or because he was still trying to wrap his mind around the I'm-twelve-statement, he wasn't exactly sure.

 

"And you don't seem like a hallucination. And nothing else here seems like a hallucination. So, what are you, Captain?" Tony was now free of armor. He had sat up, looked around. He now pulled a sock off with his toes and buried the naked foot into the thick carpet. Flexed his toes. Smiled a little smile, seemingly despite himself. "Look, it's so soft!"

 

_What are you, Captain?_

 

Such an innocent question. The array of possible answers was laying siege on Steve's brain; where to turn, what to say? _I'm your friend?_ The real Tony (no, this was the real Tony too – _his_ Tony – but that was wrong as well; the _adult_ Tony, then) – well, the adult Tony would have laughed at him. A _friend_. It wouldn't have been a pleasant laugh.

 

A teammate, then? Not quite, not any more. An ally? Yes, he supposed that was true, but...

 

"I'm Steve," he said, and he shrugged a little, and – stupidly (why are you always so awkward?) – he extended his hand. He immediately wanted to pull it back, but that would have been worse.

 

 _I'm twelve_... How could that be possible? Did amnesia work that way at all? Could it erase thirty years of your life and leave you with a mind of a child...? His stomach seemed to think _yes, horribly, scarily, yes, and where did the rest of your mind go in that case? What happened to it?_

_Can we get it back?_

Tony seemed to regard his extended hand as an invitation to study it. Experimentally, he took a  hold of it; since it didn't vanish or prove insubstantial, he held it firmly, a bit longer than it was necessary. Still not letting go of it, he looked the other man sharply in the eye. "So, Captain," he said, "am I demented or bat crazy?"

 

Steve took a deep breath.

 

"You were hit with some kind of a... a beam or a ray; we're not sure what it was yet," Steve said slowly, fighting the urge to clench his free hand into a fists. "I think you have some form of amnesia."

 

Tony let his hand fall. Contemplated this for a moment. Then he grinned. "I know I shouldn't be saying this, but that's kind of neat? So, how old am I really? And what's with the robo-suit? And how... I mean, _you_? Did Howard find you in the end? You look just like in the pictures. And what's your costume made of, by the way, what material is that? And what year is it anyway?" Then he blinked and clamped his mouth shut. "I'm sorry," he said hesitantly after a moment. "I know people don't like it when I talk this much."

 

Which was... Steve wanted to travel back in time and punch whoever had put that hesitation there, as well as the suddenly wary expression.

 

Before this, he had always thought Tony's face was rather expressive. Yes, it did tend to close up when a crisis was afoot, but otherwise it had seemed lively and eloquent. Compared to the way it was behaving now? The normal Tony – the _adult_ Tony, he corrected himself – was a regular closed book. Not just closed, but untouched, wrapped in transparent plastic film and put on a shelf.

 

And although Tony's voice was still Tony's voice and Tony's eyes were obviously still Tony's eyes – big and lovely and vivid – the inflection of the words was different and the eyes themselves and the muscles around them looked as if a veil of pain had suddenly been lifted; this absence Steve perceived there hurt him almost physically, he realized. Both because of what had existed there earlier (Christ, how harried Tony's face had been when Steve saw him last, before the battle, just for a moment) and also because of what the _absence_ implied. _In how many ways can I possibly lose him; in how many ways can I almost have him, and then not?_

Like a ghost of his own childhood pains, his chest constricted for a moment.

 

"You go ahead and talk as much as you like, all right?" he said as firmly, as reassuringly as he could. "I like it when you talk. Just...  just _talk_ , okay?"

 

He was aware there was too much intensity to his voice. Tony gave him a curious look, but in two seconds flat it spread and transformed his face into a bright grin (and, oh god, Steve had missed that grin, it seemed like ages since he had last seen Tony beam like that). "Okay," Tony complied readily, "but then you have to answer. Because, if you don't, what's the point?"

 

_First things first._

 

"Do you feel strong enough to stand up? Can you tell me how you are feeling before we do anything else?"

 

Experimentally, Tony rolled his shoulders, then slowly got to his feet. Made a few steps towards the huge windows that opened onto the rainy cityscape. Stretched his hands above his head, scrunched up his face.

 

"Are you in pain?"

 

"I'm all right," he said quickly, then inclined his head and gave Steve a measuring look. "Actually, everything hurts. But it's not... it doesn't feel sprained or bruised or anything. Just..."

 

Steve frowned. "Yes?"

 

"Well, the knees are killing me, and the lower back, and the... Why would _elbows_ hurt? And there's like a line of pain from my left shoulder-blade all the way down my arm, like a piece of string, it's weird. But..." a very concentrated look came over his face, "...I think somehow my body is used to it? It doesn't feel alarming or anything. And," his hand rose to touch his chest lightly; fell back, "breathing feels a little freaky. Like there isn't enough space for air."

 

Steve got up, stepped closer. _Is it the old wounds, or did I do more damage than I thought I did, in Siberia?_ Before he knew what he was doing, his hand was on Tony's shoulder, squeezing lightly. Then he quickly let go, stepped back.

 

Tony looked at him strangely. "What's up?" he said. "Look, it's not that bad. Just, you asked." He turned and awkwardly joke-punched Steve in the shoulder. "Hey, don't be down."

 

"I didn't know you were in pain."

 

Tony laughed out. "Well, I'm probably not talking about it," he said as if something like that would be a matter of course. "I'm hungry. How was I hit, by the way, what kind of beam? And what are we doing about it? And you _gotta_ tell me everything, how you came back and everything. If it's a dream, I'm making the most of it! Can we order pizza?"

 

"Of course!" Steve was happy to have something useful to do. His mind was almost paralyzed. He figured it had emptied itself as a form of self-defense.

 

 _If we can't get him back to the way he was... God, I have to do something, but I don't know what._ "Friday," he said, and when the AI didn't respond (and – _oh, good, she probably doesn't want to freak him out, smart girl!_ ), "order us a Hawaii and a pepperoni with extra chili and, ah, no, wait..." He glanced at Tony, who was looking at him curiously.

 

"Is that some kind of a voice-order computer that you're talking to?"

 

"Yeah," said Steve. "I'll explain. I..."

 

"And you actually know what kind of pizza I like? We're, like, friends?"

 

Steve winced internally.

 

"I figured maybe you didn't want the extra chili this time around?" Because, what twelve-year-old would? He tried on a smile. It was as if his lips had forgotten how to. But he had to... he supposed he _had_ to try and act normal for Tony's sake – just like he would with a child, really. He'd visited children's hospitals plenty of times. You swallowed your sadness and did what you had to. He brightened up noticeably, now, forcibly so, and put on his kindly voice – boy, did it sound wrong. "So, what would you like? Do you want to look at a menu? Or maybe we can have them make whatever you want!"

 

Tony gave him a level look and very deliberately rolled his eyes at him . "Could you not do the fake cheerful thing? Adults always do that. You're horrible at it, by the way."

 

Steve deflated. "Probably. I guess. Okay."

 

"I don't mind that you're worried. I'm not six."

 

"I know."

 

"I don't think I want the chili pizza thing, though," Tony went on as if absolutely nothing had happened. "I want what you're having... I never tried the Hawaiian one. That I know of, that is," he corrected himself quickly.

 

"You hate it."

 

"Really? I almost never get to eat pizza. I thought I'd like any kind. All right, so let's see if I hate it in the past too... the future, I mean. The past _me_ in the future. Friday, make it two Hawaiian styles."

 

There was a pause. Then, reluctantly: "Yes, boss." Tony grinned; it seemed to Steve he mouthed 'yes, boss' for himself. "Maybe we should teach Friday to sing _Daisy, Daisy_ , to freak people out." Then he furrowed his brow. "Do you think it's possible my present-time self got transported back into my twelve year old body, and I traveled to the future somehow? I mean, I know that's not possible, but..." He grinned. "I shouldn't be having this much fun with this,  should I? But.. seeing the future for real, you know, the talking puter and all? It's like a dream."

 

A hint of a smile surfaced on Steve's lips all by itself, then sank back into nothingness. "I don't know, Tony, but here's what I do know: whatever this is, you're still you." Steve couldn't decide if this made the whole situation more or less painful. _I need you back._

 

Tony beamed at him a little and clapped him on the shoulder awkwardly, letting the hand rest there for a moment. The same old facial expression, the same small smile and the laugh lines, and the same gesture as always. Muscle memory, Steve supposed.

 

"Don't worry, Captain, we'll get me back." Tony dropped onto the floor, his back to a sofa, and patted the carpet beside him. "Do we have any plans for that? I mean, this is fun, but..." He grinned. "You know."

 

Steve sat down across from him. "I'm..." he began seriously. "I was sent to bring you here. Dr Richards, Dr Strange and Dr Cho will come along as soon as they can, I'm sure. You shouldn't be worried."

 

" _You're_ worried."

 

_I need you back in order to ask you what to do about your present condition. Isn't it ironic?_

 

"I'll be fine. And so will you." Reassurance. For both their benefits.

 

"Dr Richards, Dr Cho, Dr Strange – like, _Strange_? Really? None of them are our family physicians, but I suppose it's been a long time. So. They any good?"

 

"The best," Steve replied, and _finally something I can be sure about when you ask me._ "You've worked with Dr Cho a lot in the past, and Reed Richards is..."

 

"Wait, _Reed_ Richards?" Tony was on his feet like a lightning bolt, staring down at Steve, his mouth hanging slightly open. "You're kidding," he postulated; refuted it. "You're _not_ kidding," was his conclusion. He looked like laughter had tried and died on the way out. "Really? _Richards_ , really?"

 

"You know him? _Knew_ him, even back then, I mean?"

 

"You kidding? We're in school together. Were. He's _unbearable_. Tell me, look, _please_ tell me I turned out cooler than Reed effing _Richards_."

 

This time a smile crept upon Steve from somewhere in the back, and by the time he became aware of it, it had taken over his face already. "He's a great scientist, just like you. But the truth is, you're _way_ cooler."

 

Tony just nodded. "That's okay, then. But he's got more PhD's than me, though, right?"

 

"I think he's got two on you right now, but I'm never sure."

 

"He's _such_ a nerd," Tony concluded with a nod. "Two, eh?"

 

He sat back down, then sprawled on the carpet in his – oh _God_ , it was killing Steve every time he did it, with his usual gestures, his usual mannerisms and _lying on the carpet like that, like he always does, his fingers intertwined behind his head, his legs crossed, Christ almighty, it would have torn your heart in two even if he were his normal self._

 

(And a part of you is enjoying the fact that you get to hang out with him, even though he's like this, isn't that sad? Being here, smiling at him, as if everything between you was normal? As if he'd ever have you here if he were himself. How is that not a betrayal?)

  
At that very moment, looking straight at Tony, Steve missed him so much he thought he would disintegrate.

 

"So," Tony went on chattering. "Tell me about the robo-suit and how I got hit with the whatever-beam and how you saved me." He grinned. "Captain effing America. I can't believe this."

 

The fact was, Steve hadn't saved him, and that was the problem. How many of his friends was he going to fail?

 

***

 

He saw Tony for two minutes before the battle. As soon as Tony laid eyes on him, he lowered the visor and hid his face.

 

"Oh. Hey." He didn't even pretend at nonchalance. He didn't sound angry either. He just seemed weary, as if he'd had enough of just about everything (and, possibly, especially Steve).

 

Steve had expected a myriad different reactions, from _himself_ in the first place. He'd been trying to prepare for this moment – had thought of a thousand ways this might go, a thousand things to say. But he wasn't even sure what he was feeling right now, except for this sickly regret in the pit of his stomach, as if it was all over already. (It _was_ over.) As if all the hope of fixing anything had sank together with Tony's faceplate. (The fact that he hadn't called you once in all these months should have been a dead giveaway).

 

He had a feeling the seconds stretched and stretched: like when you stepped in a piece of gum on the street on a hot day,; and he just stood there, and all he was able to do was mumble a stupid "Hi", and probably treat the on-lookers with the show of  an especially inane expression on his face.

 

He looked at Tony. The lights of Tony's helmet looked back.

 

"Well, I should be off, mustn't keep the guests waiting..." Tony gestured towards the place where the portal was supposedly going to open. It seemed like a bleak copy of his usual swagger.

 

"Wait."  Steve took a deep breath and once again wished he could have a sip of something stiff, for courage. Something that would _work._ "Tony..." Of course, that had to be the precise moment for all his thoughts to abandon him.

 

Tony turned, made a hesitant step towards him; lifted his visor; Steve wondered if it was just reflex. Tony looked vaguely expectant.

 

"Shouldn't we talk?" Steve wasn't completely happy with the sentence, but at least it had words in it, which was something, he supposed. He stood up a little straighter.

 

A muscle on Tony's face twitched. "I don't know about 'should'. But we might, later. Maybe." Then, unexpectedly, Tony gave him a tiny little squeeze on the shoulder, a one that could be measured in milliseconds. "So, don't die out there, eh?" And he lifted off, turning away abruptly, and flew away.

 

According to the battle plans, their positions were to be as far away from each other as humanly possible.

 

Later on, when they incidentally met on the field, they both spotted the weapon aimed more or less at them. It was a split second decision. Steve tried to place himself in front of Tony. Tony tried to jump in front of Steve. The worst thing was, if they hadn't, the beam might have missed them both.

 

***

 

With utter disgust, Tony was removing pieces of pineapple from his pizza and arranging them in a neat row along the rim of Steve's plate. "How could you even let me order this crap? Aren't you supposed to be the adult here?"

 

While they were waiting, Steve had told him a little about how he was found in the ice, and what happened afterwards. Coming to think of it, he didn't get really far with the story, all in all, because Tony seemed completely entranced with the Chitauri; Steve even had to show him some of the footage on the internet, and then, of course, Tony had a million questions about _that_ , and really, staying on target was an impossible concept, so Steve had just given up and rolled with it.

 

They were in the kitchen now, considerably fuller. Steve hadn't realized how starving he'd been until his nose was forced to acknowledge the presence of the pizza in the boxes. And then he had to make a break in his story because _holy mother of God_ , he needed to stuff his face, and Tony didn't seem to be faring much better either. And then it was a typical post-battle lethargy setting in, he was getting a little sleepy, and... he blinked and sat up straighter, suddenly feeling guilty.

 

Ever since he'd brought Tony back, a part of him had lingered on the battlefield, where people fought and where he was _needed_. He had low-key checked his phone a few times, and did get a few updates, and everyone seemed to be doing okay. The fight had been wrapping up when he left. What needed to be done now was to hunt down all the possible leftover pockets of resistance. They could do that without him. They could...

 

"Are you fretting about the battle?"

 

Okay, so he had noticed. Of _course_ he had noticed, it was him; Steve couldn't fool him.

 

"Yes."

 

"Yeah, I thought so. You keep checking your pocket phone. Shouldn't you be there?" It seemed more like curiosity than anything else, really. Steve could see that. And yet, the guilt shot through him – but then he pictured leaving Tony here, and that was even worse. "I can stay here on my own," Tony continued, all casual. A little bit _too_ casual, Steve thought all of a sudden, and indeed,   _you might have noticed he was fidgeting under the table_ and _I'm an idiot, of course he's not just relaxed and chatty and cheerful about all of this, he's _putting on a brave face_ , obviously so. _

 

He gave himself a moment to think about what to say. "I'm worried. I'm not in the right mindset for battle," he said slowly. "If one of my soldiers was, well, like this, I wouldn't let him go fight. It's not just himself he'd be endangering." But, he thought, I'm lying. At least a little bit. I'm not there because if I weren't here, I think I'd die.

 

"Excuse me, Captain, but I think that's bullshit."

 

" _Tony_ _!_ "

 

"What? I'm... I'm 43, right? That's what you said. And you're not my duenna. I can say _bullshit_ if I want." There was a tiny, strange glint in his eyes. "You know what I think? I think you don't want to leave me alone." For a moment, Steve frowned, unable to figure out why Tony was saying it as if it were a bad thing. But then, the man went on, "What do you think I'm gonna _do_? Exactly?"

 

Steve opened his mouth to retort, then shook his head and let it sink into his palm.

 

"You're smiling," Tony said. "You're smiling, Captain, why are you smiling?"

 

 _Because I'm going crazy_. _Because I'm going to cry._

 

"Because you're always calling me out on my bullshit. Even when... even _now_." He searched for something to do with his hands, then stretched, got hold of a kitchen roll and tossed it to Tony. "You got pizza moustache. And for the love of god, stop calling me Captain."

 

"So, what do I usually call you? _'Steve'?_ " A hint of incredulity in his voice surfaced.

 

Steve thought for a moment. Shrugged awkwardly.

 

"Eh," he said. "Not really. I mean... I suppose right now I'd mostly be 'hey you', but..." His forehead longed for the safety of his hand. He trailed off.

 

Wiping his mouth, Tony gave him a sharp look. "And when I asked you if we were friends, you started chatting about pizza-topping. So what's the deal?"

 

The deal, basically, was not to upset Tony right now. Just until Strange and his science cohorts deigned to come and fix all this. _I'm incompetent. Why am I so incompetent at this?_ The idea was not to upset Tony, and there was a very easy way to accomplish that...

 

(Go ahead and lie to him, why don't you.)

 

...and that easy way consisted of empty platitudes. And Steve couldn't.

 

He sighed. "I don't know what we are any more, Tony. We... had a fight. But... "

 

Tony cut right through his words. "So, in the battle over there – I was on the opposite side from you, right? You're just being _kind_." He made it sound like a bad word.

 

"What? _No._ "

 

Tony relaxed a little. Sipped his orange juice. Then crossed his arms. "Okay. So – what did I do?"

 

The contents of Steve's stomach filed a protest. He took a deep breath. Aborted every attempt to say something coherent.

 

"Can we please just let it go?" He didn't mean to sound sharp at all.

 

Tony closed his eyes for a moment. Tony hung his head a little. Tony nodded.

 

His voice was controlled, completely inflectionless. "All right."

 

For a moment, Steve busied himself with collecting the plates and putting the pizza boxes into the garbage disposal; then he decided to quickly do the dishes – a conscious coward's way out; luckily, there were old dishes in the sink, too. Plenty of excuses to not look at Tony, who was still sitting at the table; very quietly so.

 

Steve wished it was physically possible to somehow kick oneself for real.

 

He turned. "Look." He leaned against the counter, stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You didn't do anything," he said with as much gentle firmness as he could muster, "not the way you mean. We disagreed. About politics; but it was important. And I... lied to you. About something that really matters. We had a fight. Things are... not great. Could we just... please leave it at that? For now? Please?" The pointer of his voice-meter was swaying towards 'imploring'.

 

Tony was looking at him intently, his eyes big. It seemed he had forgotten how to blink. "All right," he said slowly. It sounded different from before, more natural.

 

"But I did hope to talk to you," Steve went on, because, despite his words, he had somehow gained momentum, and stopping all at once was proving difficult. "After the battle. But then..." he spread his arms helplessly, "this."

 

Tony inclined his head, studied him for a moment. Opened his mouth to say something.

 

It was then that they heard voices from the sitting room and... "That'd be the scientists," Steve said quickly, with considerable relief. "We'll get you fixed any minute now." _I hope_. "Don't be scared, all right?"

 

***

 

Whatever time-frame 'any minute' was supposed to be, it had come and gone, and nothing was fixed yet. Steve had never thought he'd spend as many hours in the Baxter Building. He paced. He poured coffee straight into (as it seemed) his cardiovascular system. He tried to play a stupid game on his phone, but kept crashing the car; a part of him enjoyed seeing it blow up over and over again, in different types of terrain.

 

He texted with Rhodes, who was being held up at Pentagon and who was going mildly crazy over Tony. He texted with Natasha. He made a playlist of Tony's favorite songs – the ones released after 1986, the ones Tony's 12-year-old self wouldn't have heard yet – to play for him during one of the breaks; and he kept swallowing the dread, but dread wouldn't stay down; it was like a particularly ugly case of sushi bought at a discount.

 

When Strange got out of the lab and told him there was still no progress, Steve excused himself politely and went to the bathroom. It was only when Tony opened the door and peered inside, 7-8 minutes later, that Steve realized he should have locked the door. He hurried to wipe his eyes and his nose, but, he thought, he probably wasn't particularly inconspicuous.

 

"No one ever taught you to knock?" he sassed half-heartedly.

 

"No one ever taught you how to weep silently?" Tony responded in kind. "I could hear your hiccups through the door."  He gave Steve a cheerless smile. "Basically, if you cover your mouth with both hands – firmly – it works better." A beat. "They are telling me nothing. They say they are still processing the data. But I think Reed's lying. He looks like shit too."

 

Steve sighed. "Strange said there's very little progress for now. They seem at a loss for what to do."

 

They were silent for a minute.

 

"Do you think..." Tony began. His face had gone carefully impassive, but his eyes looked wide and scared to Steve, and extremely young. "If I stay like this, do you think I'm going to... grow up again? Next year, will I think I'm thirteen? Or am I staying  this way forever?"

 

Steve's heart didn't exactly break at that moment. He'd had many heartbreaks in his lifetime; he knew how to deal with heartbreak. Right now his heart proceeded to crumble quietly into nothingness, and it seemed it would never stop; a structural fault that had appeared was quite irreparable. He kept shaking his head. "No. _No._ We're going to fix this."

 

"And if we don't?"

 

"If we don't then..." Steve took a deep breath. "If we don't, then we keep trying. You're smart. I'm stubborn. We'll think of something."

 

This seemed to calm Tony down, if  only marginally. "But... if you believed that," Tony tried for a smile, mostly failed, "I don't think you'd be crying in the bathroom."

 

Steve wanted to tell him _I miss you_. Steve wanted to tell him _I need you back, to yell at me or ignore me forever, to never forgive me probably, but I just need you to be back_. Because he did. Right now, he was prepared to settle for that – even if Tony never spoke to him again, that would be okay, as long as they fixed _this_.

 

Bargaining. Isn't that supposedly a stage of grief? (Aren't you going through them awfully quickly, though?)

 

Steve straightened. Then, with all the bravery he could find within himself (and this required more than many war-related things he'd done in his time), he awkwardly put his arms around Tony and held him for a moment. Contrary to what he'd expected, Tony practically threw himself into the hug, sank into it the way he never would have if he was, well, himself. He was warm and lax and yielding; _so tired_ , Steve thought. It was all too much for him. A barrier between Tony and the world – that was what Steve wanted to be right now. A trench and a battlement, to encircle him and keep him safe. And before he knew what he was doing, he kissed him lightly on top of the head, like he would kiss a real child. "It's going to be okay," he murmured into his hair.

 

"You wouldn't act like this if you didn't still like me at least a little bit," Tony proclaimed in a muffled voice, somewhere in the vicinity of Steve's shoulder.

 

"I like you a whole _lot_ ," Steve said without much hesitation. It was easier to say certain things aloud when he didn't have to look into those eyes.

 

"If I get better... do you think we can be friends again?" Tony wriggled free and Steve let him go, then brushed Tony's hair back, almost unconsciously. It was slightly damp.

 

He chuckled then, because, really, tears would just scare Tony further. "I'll be frank with you. I don't think you'll want to. But if you do... yeah. I hope so." _Somehow._

 

Tony looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Well, I might want to, you know. Maybe." A beat. "Steve."

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Could we get on with this thing tomorrow? Can we maybe go home now?"

 

***

 

It took only a little arm wrestling with the science mob. The three of his acquaintances had  been joined by two Wakandan brain specialists in the meantime. Steve found himself wishing Bruce Banner was there. He wasn't sure Bruce could help, but he would, at least, be as heartbroken as Steve (somehow, that would have made it easier). He wouldn't view the whole situation with such thinly veiled fascination either. In the end Dr Cho put her foot down and said Stark needed rest, and perhaps familiar surroundings and a good chunk of sleep would propel a development of sorts. (Okay, so Helen was almost a friend as well.)

 

Steve found himself telling Tony about Bruce on the way back.

 

"So, I do have some other friends, then?" He sounded relieved.

 

"Of course."

 

"I wasn't sure. Since no one else came... You know, Jarvis did say it got easier as you grew up..." It was these joyless little chuckles Steve had come to dread. They reached right into his chest and squeezed. This _was_ Tony, three decades ago: a kid full of too-mature insights and cheerless grins. "But I'm not married, right?" Tony went on. "Divorced or something horrible like that? Kids?"

 

Steve shook his head. The scientists had decreed– and he personally agreed – that too many people milling around would just overstimulate and confuse him. "You have good friends. And there's... You have Pepper. She's... you used to be together. You loved each other very much. I'm not sure what happened, actually..."

  
  
"That's depressing."

 

"I could call her if you want, though? I'm sure she'd be there for you if..."

 

" _No._ Don't. I don't want her to see me like this."

 

Steve nodded. "I thought so."

 

They were back home, now, but any kind of rest was proving elusive. Tony's system had been pumped too full of neurostimms, and he seemed to be brimming with nervous energy more than ever. They tried playing cards, but Tony's attention kept wandering, and besides, he thought pinochle was pretty stupid. Tentatively, Steve played around with an idea that had occurred to him. "Wanna see something cool?"

 

Tony _loved_ the workshop. He laughed aloud and stared around in delight, he petted his bots and played with them and asked a million question, that could mostly be summed up as: "Did I really make this? Really? _Really?_ "

 

There were two moments that gave Steve a glimmer of hope. Practically as soon as they had stepped in, the littlest bot had rushed Tony, rubbing against his leg. Tony had pushed him away playfully, said: "Stop it, dummy." Paused. Blinked. Frowned. Then just went on.

 

The second one was finding a framed photograph, left facedown on one of the work-benches. Tony had taken it up. Ran his finger along the smiling Avengers' faces.  "I don't know why this makes me sad," he had said thoughtfully.

 

 _Maybe_ , Steve thought, _seeing familiar people wouldn't be such a bad idea after all._

 

"Do you want to talk to Rhodey?" he asked when his phone rang. Tony gave him a blank look and, _oh, god, this has a potential to break too many hearts._ Steve explained. Tony shook his head. No. No, he didn't. He didn't want to talk to people he was supposed to know but didn't. Especially not elusory best friends of three decades. Not yet. Tomorrow? Steve updated the colonel and asked him to come the next day. With a great reluctance, Rhodey had agreed.

 

Which was the reason Steve had to face another barrage of difficult questions, all on his own.

 

"Is everyone really dead? I mean, Jarvis? Ana? I know it's been thirty years, but gosh..." And even before Steve could respond, "And Howard was 57 when I was born, so there's no way he could be alive, but what about Mom? She would be turning, what, 73 in March? But she's dead too, isn't she. You're not saying anything, just sitting there being miserable at me, which means she's dead. How? I mean, what happened? Did she get sick?"

 

It was so tempting.

 

It was tempting to spare him the pain and the unnecessary hurt, at least for a little while. He would remember soon enough anyway; it would all rush back. Apparently it was already beginning to. So was there really a reason to inflict that kind of pain all over _again_? Let him suffer through it twice?

 

But he had tried sparing Tony before. Look how stellar it turned out.

 

And maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was guilt over the whole issue. But he couldn't bring himself to lie. Not now, not while Tony stared at him with those big, too smart eyes.

 

He breathed for a second. "My friend. James Barnes. Everyone thought he died in the war." Tony frowned and gave him a puzzled look, but Steve pushed on. "He was captured by Hydra and experimented on. Mind-wiped. Turned into a super-soldier like me. But an assassin. In their service. He... he killed your Mom and Dad. In 1991. I'm so sorry."

 

It was the way he should have done it the first time. Years ago. (Not late in the least, oh no. You never wait too long. That's not your house special at all.)

 

He watched Tony's face crumple in slow-motion.

 

The man jumped down from the workbench he'd been sitting on. At the same time, both his hands flew up, to seal his mouth, so that no treacherous sound would escape. Then he let them fall. Came up to Steve. Put both hands on his chest and pushed. Obediently, Steve took a step back. Tears weren't the worst thing about it. The worst thing was the betrayed look, mouth opening and closing for a second before Tony managed: "Why? _Why?_ Why did you have to tell me that? Why do I have to go through this too? Couldn't you just... lie? But nooo, you're Captain America, you never do, do you..."

 

The irony of it all enveloped Steve like a giant jelly-fish; the sting was comparable too.

 

The thing about options is, you usually don't have as many as you think. Explanations were certainly one. Instead, Steve put his arms around Tony and pulled him close. It was easier than the last time. Previous history of hugging, he supposed. Maybe it got less clumsy every time you did it. In his arms, Tony didn't even struggle; he just let his face sink into the tiny shelter, somewhere between Steve's shoulder and neck. He shook violently, once, twice, then went limp. "I'm sorry," Steve whispered, wondering if the man heard him at all. "I'm sorry, Tony, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry." He thought he repeated it more times than he was aware.

 

"I'll stop," Tony whispered back, as another intense sob shook him. "In a minute. I'll stop, I promise."

 

(So you wondered what would have happened if you'd actually told him when you should have. Here's your answer. Here's your path not taken. Enjoy the preview.)

 

Steve rubbed small circles on Tony back with one hand, massaged his scalp lightly with the other. "No," he said quietly. "Cry. As much as you want to."

 

***

 

After talking him into having two granola bars and a glass of milk, Steve said: "Do you think you could fall asleep now?" They were back in the kitchen. Tony was all cried out. His eyes were red, his nose runny; Steve had never seen him like that.

 

(If you manage to bring him back, he'll hate you for the sole reason of seeing him like this.)

And then: _If we manage to bring him back, it'll be worth it, obviously._

 

Tony shook his head mutely. After the big revelation, he had gone mostly silent. Steve missed his chattering already. It was weird. He wondered if he would miss this Tony a little, after everything returned to normal (because it had to return to normal, it _had_  to). Certainly not as much as he missed the adult one right now, but, on the other hand, missing him had become a second nature in the latest months. He could deal with missing him.

 

"So..." Steve tried again. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

 

At this, Tony brightened slightly. "All right." Half-heartedly so, but he was already on the project. "Jarvis never lets me watch anything too scary. Do you think we could pick something terrifying? What's the worst thing you've seen?"

 

 _Life._ Steve wasn't a horror fan at all.

 

"I'll do you one better," he said. "How about _Back to the Future_..."

 

"That's my favorite movie," Tony said. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

 

Steve made a dramatic pause, "...parts _two_ and _three_?"

 

Tony's eyes went wide, and a shaky, bleary grin decided to show its face. "Seriously? There are parts two and three?"

 

Before he could stop himself, Steve mussed his hair. Tony didn't seem to mind overly much. "You always said you wished you could watch them again for the first time."

 

And soon enough, they were both on the couch, hanging out with Marty McFly.

 

" _Are_ there flying skateboards for real?"

 

"Don't think so."

 

"Did you find the future this shocking? When they defrosted you?"

 

"You can't begin to imagine."

 

"What was the worst part?"

 

"The noise."

 

Resilience, Steve mused. Tony could write a book about resilience. A comprehensive guide on bouncing back. But it was, in part, just a shaky facade. The awareness of it was prickly in his conscience.

 

"Steve?"

 

Steve brought a blanket and tossed it to Tony, who obediently put it around his shoulders like a cloak. He was sitting on the couch, his legs curled under him.

 

Steve sat back down. "Hm?"

 

"What if I really stay like this?"

 

"You won't. You're already remembering things."

 

Tony shifted a little closer to him. "Yeah, but what if I _do_?"

 

"Nothing. You'll still be smarter than anyone else." Tony shifted another inch closer. So, okay, that was enough for Steve, he could take a clue. Sometimes. Occasionally. If pressed really hard. He lifted an arm invitingly. "Hush and come here?"

 

"What, like a hug?" Tony said, all innocence, and smiled a microscopic smile, and came to sit close to Steve, snuggling shyly into his side.

 

"Yeah," Steve said, pulling him in. Readily, Tony laid his head on his chest and sighed a little sigh. _Contentedly_ , Steve would say if he had to guess. He pulled the blanket over them both, then put his arms around Tony, holding him close. "Like a hug."

 

"So, if I don't get better..."

 

"You will."

 

"But say I don't. Are you going to stay?"

 

Steve leaned his cheek against the top of Tony's head and wondered what it would be like if that happened, and wondered: if Tony actually came back for real, would he remember this, and will that change anything, or will it just make him angrier with Steve. Which, in the end, didn't really matter. What mattered was the now, and the two of them, curled up on the couch, and the third part of the movie starting (Steve liked that one best of all); and all of eternity could wait for a little while.

 

The answer, on the other hand, couldn't.

 

"Of course I'm going to stay," he murmured. "Hush and watch the movie. You love this one."

 

"Jules," muttered Tony sleepily. "And Verne. The kids, in the end. Right?"

 

Warm and comfortable, they both slowly drifted off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

It was like lancing a boil, Tony supposed. Not that he'd ever lanced a boil, or _had_ a boil, really, for that matter. Maybe an infected wound would make a better metaphor. An infected wound that had somehow closed over, but it hadn't been cleaned out properly. You needed to cut it open and let the puss leak out before you could do anything else.

 

Somehow, that was another thing that had never happened to him. An array of other fucked up injuries, sure, but he had somehow avoided this particular mess.

 

Maybe he should steer clear of medical comparisons in the future.

 

The thing was, he was now able to feel the pain over his parents' deaths without an overlaying veil of anger or bitterness, betrayal or a hotly burning rage. It was glorious.

 

Sure, there was a pinch of bitterness here and there, and more than a ladle of regret; and the usual cocktail of self-blaming in the vein of _if you'd had a car accident yourself, they would have never left on that trip and maybe they'd still be alive_. But, judging by everything he'd seen or read, all of this was within a frame of your regular, normal grief. Over the course of years, he had learned to appreciate regular and normal. Clean pain was almost a luxury.

 

The other side of the coin was, it was sharp as a katana; it was all _new_ again. It lacked the twenty years of unhealthy coping that had made it more bearable. To go back to the non-working medical metaphors, the flesh that had grown over the infected wound had been surgically removed and _holy hell, that shit hurt._

 

This worked – he reflected as he sat at a war council he was supposed to pay attention to, but didn't – by way of fucking with your limbic system. Much like the BARF, actually. It confused your hippocampus into submission and made things hurt less – or, in this case, more.

 

The old feelings were still there too, of course, they didn't go anywhere, didn't get erased. They did get slightly blurred, though. It was almost like two split time streams snapping back together. The question was, which version of Tony would come out on top. The one whose hurt over Steve's actions, together with everything else, he'd been battling for months? Or the twelve year old one that had _just found out_ about Howard and Maria?

 

In the end, in the course of a few days, they had blended.

 

They had blended, and Tony still found himself crying disconsolately at inopportune times (like now, for example – he excused himself before anyone could notice, and escaped to the bathroom). But at least he _grieved_ and that was all he felt – nothing more, nothing less – and it was a relief.

 

Like lancing a boil, really.

 

***

 

"Yes, but we cannot assume Central America is safe from all serious invasions, and that the necessary measures, both naval and..." Steve was saying, and Tony did his best to follow, but his mind kept getting lost in its own depths. Was it the recent stress his brain had been through, or the lack of sleep, or what, he couldn't be sure. He sneaked a look at Steve. He was in his old blue battle suit, for the sake of show. He looked tired too, but determined like a rock. He looked everywhere but at Tony; except in those tiny moments in time, when Tony almost caught his eye, but was to embarrassed to really try; and they would both look away flash-fast, to avoid any incidental eye contact that would probably burn them both to the ground.

 

He had lied to Steve. What was worse, he suspected Steve knew.

 

He had fallen asleep on the couch, in his arms. The memory brought on a heady mixture of pleasure and feeling of safety and mortification. That was how he had fallen asleep, and he had woken up tucked in his own bed, after what was, apparently, 28 hours, during which time his brain had done some serious bridging and mending. That was the inevitable conclusion, if nothing else, given the fact that he now had his memories back.

 

"Yes, but, if the joint forces of the New Shield and the Midnight Sons in the Hawaiian archipelago are maintained at their present total aggregate strength..." Fury countered. Steve kept shaking his head all the while, right to left, left to right, as if watching a tennis match.

 

Steve had asked him how much he remembered. _It's all pretty much a blur_ , Tony had answered. It hadn't been an _outright_ lie, really. It _had_ all seemed kind of blurry, as it rushed back. Jumbled together with thirty years of his _other_ memories. Besides, Steve had looked strangely _relieved_ as Tony implicitly denied remembering what had happened in the last day or so. It was better that way; for _both_ of them.

 

No, scratch that. It _was_ a lie all right. And Tony could live with lies.

 

He was okay now – well, mostly okay, really, he just needed some time to come all the way back into his own; and the lack of sleep wasn't helping. In any case, he was fine, and Steve had rushed off at the first opportunity, to help get some people out of one shitter or another. And Rhodey had been there to act as a buffer, thankfully. And Natasha kept turning up to check up on him, Jesus Christ, for all her tough exterior she was the biggest worrywart of them all. And Vision kept preparing food, bless him, even though it didn't always taste the way it was supposed to (although he usually did get the color and the texture and the density exactly right). And Tony had been so relieved to see Steve go, because, really, he himself wasn't able to deal with any of this - he wouldn't have been even if the circumstances had been normal, let alone with memory loss and newly found flood of grief and an alien invasion.

 

"If we take the general's suggestion," Steve was at it again, holy hell, where did he get the energy to argue this much with people, "that the whole earthforce front in the Pacific be treated as a single strategic field of action, and that the disposition of the reserves, the periodic re-arrangement of the point of junction between the various earthforces on the actual front..."

 

Tony remembered everything, every single word and facial expression they had exchanged that day. And Steve had bitten the bullet and told him about his parents this time, even if he didn't have to, even if anyone less... earnest, Tony supposed... would probably have glossed over it and just kept his mouth shut for the sake of pseudo-kindness. But not Steve, not this time. The blonde little shit was probably the only person on Earth that sincerely and solemnly tried to learn from his mistakes. And this had enabled Tony to go through that incredible shock and grief for the third (fuck this, it was too much), fucking _third_ time in his life, more or less, but now with someone suddenly and unexpectedly dear holding him throughout, comforting him, making him feel safe for once – and it had meant something. It had changed something. And that was it. It was now changed. No turning back.

 

***

 

When the meeting was finally over, the people filtered out of his office. Why, why did he offer up his offices for this? Any old park could have served as the HQ. He did his best to look busy with the papers and folders he had arranged on his desk precisely for that purpose.

 

He should have told them he wasn't ready for this. He should have told Fury he couldn't do it – not yet. But, in all honesty, he hadn't been aware of the extent of it. He had thought he was simply a little distracted. That was all. Sleep was a miracle worker. _If only I could sleep, just for a little while, I'd be okay._

 

Someone pushed a styrofoam cup towards him across the desk. With a lot of hesitation, too. Also, Tony would have recognized that hand anywhere.

 

He couldn't. For the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes.

 

During the endless hours of the meeting, he'd furtively watched Steve toy with the damn cup, never taking a single sip from it.

 

"Did you want me to dispose of that for you?" Tony asked with care, blinking rapidly and rustling around in the papers.

 

"No. It's... coffee."

 

Oh, fuck all of this to hell. Did he absolutely have to bring him coffee too?

 

"Oh," Tony said. And: "Well." And: "Okay." He wrapped his hand around the cup (it was stone-cold, of course it was, it'd been hours).

 

Steps, moving away. Tony let himself glance up. Steve's familiar back, in rapid retreat. Something in Tony twisted.

 

"Hey..." He didn't mean to speak up; had no idea what to say now. Everything was too much and nothing was enough.

 

The man turned.

 

"Er..." Tony Stark, ladies and gentlemen: genius, philanthropist, whatever, whatever. All of it, currently evident in the way his mouth hung ajar, as well as in his unprecedented eloquence, apparently. "Thanks... Steve."

 

Inanely, he raised the cup in a kind of a half-salute and took a sip (the coffee was cold and disgusting and absolutely divine).

 

Steve gave him an awkward sort-of-wave and practically ran out.

 

***

 

Steve was apparently renting an apartment in Brooklyn, the old sap. _Renting_. Shield, the government and half a dozen other organizations would have been happy to provide him with a place to live, but, yeah, Tony could fathom the need to have something of your own, somewhere you could crash at the end of the day and not have to feel grateful to anyone.

 

Steve was renting an apartment in Brooklyn, and Tony was pacing the hallway in front of it with two pizza boxes under his arm. Practically all the way to the door. Stop. Decide this was too much. Turn back. Et cetera, et cetera, until his head started spinning.

 

Let alone twelve. He felt as if he were _six_ again. Six and standing at the closed door of Ana and Jarvis's apartment in the Malibu house, his pillow under his arm. He always knew they would usher him inside, but making up his mind and knocking had still been a struggle, every single time.

 

This was worse.

 

And he was so fucking tired.

 

In the previous months, Tony had struggled with the question if he should forgive Steve, _should_ being the key word there. But forgiveness was not about shoulds and shouldn'ts; it either happened or it didn't. Steve was a good guy, for sure. That one wasn't disputable. Given the number of dipshits and dickheads, vicious bastards and outright evil motherfuckers Tony had encountered during his lifetime (in the corporate word and politics notably more than in his superheroing line of work), he could spot the difference, yeah.

 

Steve was a good man, and sometimes it's _more_ difficult to forgive good men that have wronged you.

 

In the darker hours of the night, he occasionally wondered if Steve should forgive him.

 

He swallowed. He decided, once again, to just go home (this was too much; he should talk to Steve once he was in a more balanced state of mind). Then he remembered the cold coffee, and thought, inconsequentially, what a pity it would be to let the pizza grow cold or go to waste, and he raised his hand and knocked before he could stop himself.

 

The door flew open practically as soon as his knuckles touched the wood. Super-hearing. Of course. Steve had probably been going crazy in there, over the asshole pacing the hallways for the last twenty minutes.

 

“Sorry to bother you at such an hour but I saw the lights were still on and I thought.” Tony opted for a full-stop mid-sentence because it seemed like a good idea.

 

Steve was barefoot and dressed in a pair of old sweats and an appallingly washed-out T-shirt, but at least he didn't look like he'd been asleep. He did stop and blink for a moment when he saw Tony at the door.

 

"I was reading," he said. "Whatever you might think, I don't go to bed at nine." He followed this with the tiniest of smiles Tony had ever seen.

 

He looked infuriatingly... friendly and open, and just a little bit surprised. (Well, all right, more than a little bit. His eyes had seemed about to pop out of his face for a second there, but he had regained the control of his eye muscles before any tragic accidents could happen.)

 

Tony felt his own cheek dance. "I just," he declared. Finishing sentences. It's a lost art, really, in this day and age.

 

“Whatever it is..." Steve began earnestly. Reconsidered. Inclined his head. "Look, you could come in and close the door, if you'd like,” he suggested with much care.

 

Vaguely feeling the need to somehow pay for the entry, Tony stuffed the pizza boxes into Steve's unresistant hands. "There's the bounty," he said, and yes, as long as he kept to the topic of pizza, this talking thing was actually working, so he went on: "One's been infested with the fruit of utter disgustingness, just the way you like it. The other one is what normal people eat."

 

Steve's place was surprisingly cozy, with big windows and strategically placed mirrors to make it look bigger (because, honestly, it was tiny), and no central lighting but a number of smaller lamps in corners, and everywhere, really. It was just one room with a kitchenette, all in colors of light wood and creams and blues. He had actual fluffy cushions on the sofa and a set of tea tables, and really, apart from the fact that it was probably a cold dump in winter, it looked lovely. Tony had no idea why he was surprised. He sometimes forgot Steve had an artist's eye. He had somehow expected his home to be bleak and Spartan.

 

There was a tub in the kitchen too, like in many really old apartment buildings. Quaint and charming, with a dash of annoyingly hipstery.

 

Tony crashed on one of the chairs by the kitchen table. The chair creaked alarmingly.

 

Quietly, Steve put the pizza boxes on the table, peered in one, peered into the other. Peered at Tony. Honestly, Tony thought, he's going to get a headache from all the peering.

 

"You remember," Steve said, and it wasn't much of a question, really, seeing it lacked the right inflection.

 

Disregarding this completely for the time being, Tony spotted a first aid kit gutted on the sink.  "You got hurt?"

 

Steve shrugged. "A scratch."

 

Tony gave him a hard look, but really, with the super-healing and all, there was probably no reason to be worried. Also, avoiding what he came here to talk about was not helping anyone. "Yeah." He took a deep breath. "I remember everything."

 

Steve made a tiny _hm_ sound. Nodded thoughtfully. Really, at this rate, they weren't going to get anywhere, and the pizza was going to get cold. "I didn't know you're an inner decoration buff," Tony blurted out of nowhere and actually surprised a laugh out of Steve. Good, that's good, keep him off balance, Tony thought to himself. Or keep him laughing. Laughing was good, too. But really, the only off-balance thing around here was himself. His mind was a fog. It was like restarting a computer in safe mode. Once you had to do that, you knew you were pretty much fucked.

 

"A lot of it came with the place, I just added a few pieces I had in a storage. Lamps and cushions and art posters, things like that."

 

Lamps and cushions and art posters. Tony had no idea what to say to that.

 

He buried his head into his hands instead and let himself disappear for a sliver of a second. A hand on his shoulder – _not_ hesitant, _not_ tentative, but massaging, quite firmly and resolutely – brought him back.

 

He ventured a glance. Steve was looking down at him, frowning slightly, in either puzzlement or worry, he couldn't be sure.

 

"Look, I came here to say a bunch of things", Tony said. "But I'm so tired and my thoughts are all screwy, and I don't know where to start. Could you sit down please?" (Steve didn't, and Tony shrugged it off.) "And I'm not even sure how I feel about everything that happened. Between you and me. But what I do know is, I don't want to hold onto these grudges any more, Steve. Anything could happen. To either one of us. And I just... I don't want that to be what's left."

 

Now Steve moved to stand all the way behind him, and the other hand promptly descended onto Tony's other shoulder. It almost hurt, the way Steve apparently gave back-rubs – either that or Tony had more tension in his shoulders than he was aware of. He leaned back and sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Shit, that feels good."

 

Steve went on saying nothing. (His hands on Tony's shoulders felt amazing, though.)

 

"You really not hurt?" Tony went on, still not opening his eyes

 

"It's nothing, I told you."

 

"Hmmm."

 

The silence wasn't exactly awkward and not exactly companionable. It seemed malleable, Tony thought. Full of potential. What they did with it now could shape something in the future.

 

On the other hand, saying nothing and enjoying an unanticipated back rub wasn't a bad option either. He could feel his muscles start to give way, and while he wouldn't call them liquid just yet, they were certainly going mildly slushy. Steve's hands were big and warm and they interrupted the pain lines in the best possible way, and all in all Tony wanted to keep them. He thought they made something in the back of his mind relax too, which meant coming here wasn't such a bad idea after all.

 

In the end Steve stopped. Went to the fridge, took out two beers. Brought two plates. Tony was happy to stick to the silence for a little while longer. (There was nothing fervent about it, nope, not at all.)

 

"Are you okay?" There was real concern in Steve's voice; only an idiot would miss it.

 

It made all of Tony's defenses rush up by sheer reflex. "I'm fine," was his automatic response before he could stop himself. Steve looked away with something akin to disappointment or sadness, Tony thought. He sighed. He forced all the spikes back into the ground and consciously pulled the barriers down. Sometimes, just sometimes, they felt suffocating. "Actually, no," he said quietly, looking Steve straight in the eye, "I'm not okay."

 

The change on Steve's face was on the verge of being too much for Tony. He nearly turned tails and ran, to hell with everything. Too much raw concern for him to deal with. Too much gentleness.

 

"I _thought_ I saw you tear up at the meeting."

 

 _Yeah, go ahead, poke your finger straight into every weakness you see._ But the protest was more habitual than anything else at this point. He just shrugged, gave a pained smile.

 

Steve frowned. "That's not what you meant, is it." He sounded as if he was talking to himself, almost. He gave Tony a once-over; all in all, the frown on his face wasn't too flattering.

 

Tony felt compelled to offer something at this point; the conversation seemed to be going through an existential crisis as it was. "Being a kid brought up a lot of memories," he said, sounding too clipped and curt. "Not very nice ones.”

 

“If you want to talk about it—” Steve started to say, only to have Tony interrupt him.

 

“God, no, I don't, I really don't. The less I think about it the better.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Steve said quickly. “Let's not think about it, then. Did you want to just eat and... Because we can do that."

 

Tony's habitual response to kindness was guilt. He was aware it spoke of screwy circuits somewhere, of bad wiring – because that wasn't the usual causal sequence, he knew that much. He also knew he couldn't do anything about it right then.

 

"We should be talking about a million things," he said, shook his head at himself, and took a huge bite of pizza to mask the fact he had no idea what to say next. He drummed his fingers on the table. "We need to clear the air, we need to..." He sighed. Thinking was like wading through snow. "Steve..."

 

"Yes."

 

"My thoughts are all screwy," he repeated softly, but this time with more significance to the words; it was probably the hardest admission he had to make in his whole life. "Since. I think it's just a lack of sleep and I think I need some time, nothing worse than that, but..." He proceeded to shake his head, as it seemed, for a lifetime. "It makes me feel so..."

 

"Helpless?"

 

Tony didn't like the word. His lips twisted. "I guess."

 

"You can't sleep."

 

Tony shook his head.

 

"Is it, er, is it bad dreams, or..."

 

Hah. Bad dreams. He ate bad dreams for breakfast. "I'm just sort of too worked up to sleep? I can't keep my thoughts still for long enough to fall asleep. They're all over the place. You wouldn't believe the mess."

 

"You do look tired." Steve sounded thoughtful. "You've probably already tried, you know, sleeping pills or..."

 

"Strange gave me something the other day, knocked me out for twelve hours solid. But I woke up all woozy, and it just... didn't do the trick." He had dreamt all the while, and it was surprisingly tiring. As if he struggled to get out the whole time, to break surface. "In the end I felt even less rested than when I started."

 

The other man was watching him like a hawk. "So. How long without?"

 

"Since Saturday."

 

"Tony!" Steve exclaimed. "That's three days."

 

"The brain scans are pat; near perfect," Tony went on quickly, almost defensively "And still, I'm... shitscared that I'm losing my mind, you know." His laugh was shakier than Steve's vintage chairs. What rose in him wasn't grief. It was something clammy and shameful, a tearful panic of sorts. (He hated its guts.) He buried his face in his hands again; all of a sudden, he felt all too vulnerable, and _bad idea, bad idea, why am I doing this at all..._ "It's stupid," he muttered.

 

He knew he was about to fall apart. It was interesting, he thought, how he had chosen to come here, of all places in the world, in order to do that. It was like restarting a computer in safe mode, yes, and he obviously needed a reset, and apparently this had become his safe mode somehow – here, with Steve.

 

And it made no sense. Trying to preserve the friendship somehow – yes, sure, in the end he had realized he wanted that. But this was not the way. This was too much too soon; no, scratch that, this was too much, _period_. With anyone. Up until now it was all right. Show some initiative, show some vulnerability. Practically friendshipping by the book. But not this.

 

He was too out of it to make a rational decision. He should just go home and stay there until he had things under control. He had come here to talk, he would swear to it with all his heart. And yet, it turned out all he _really_ wanted...

 

"I can't barge in here and ask you to be my teddy bear so I can fall asleep," he muttered and _oh shit, no, not aloud, not now..._

 

It took him some time to venture a glance up.

 

Steve busied himself with the plates and some other imaginary kitchen work. Maybe he hadn't heard him. He sure was doing his best to pretend he hadn't. Yeah, good, great. Save them both some embarrassment.

 

When he was done, Steve dried his hands with a kitchen towel, _very_ thoroughly. It must have taken him two or three full minutes. He then placed a hand on Tony's shoulder. Tony raised his own and gave his forearm a tiny squeeze.

 

"I'm told," Steve said deadpan, "I make a pretty decent teddy bear, actually."

 

And then it was all casually tossing himself onto the couch and patting the place beside him and the trademark "Hush and come here", and Tony complied before he could give it a second thought, and for once he was grateful his mind was a softened mush at the moment.

 

It was like sinking into a hot bath. A bit too much at first, and you wonder if you should change your mind and hop out, but then your body tells you to shut up and not be crazy, and it relaxes instantly out of sheer rebellion, and who are you to spoil that.

 

Holy hell, this is too good, he thought as he snuggled closer, with his head pillowed on Steve's chest.

 

“Like this?” Steve asked.

 

Tony only hummed in reply.

 

They rested like that, in silence, for several minutes. He thought his elbow was probably digging into Steve's side, and it couldn't be comfortable, but he was almost afraid he would spoil something if he moved. Steve's heartbeat was really slow, but still, it was the loudest he'd ever heard. The rhythm was almost hypnotic.

 

 “I've been told that's normal for athletes,” Steve commented, so he must have said something aloud.

 

Tony wrapped his arm around Steve's waist—shifting that sharp elbow, hopefully making it more comfortable for Steve—and snuggled even closer, his ear pressed against Steve's right pectoral. “It's very soothing.”

 

But it wasn't that alone, and it wasn't the warmth either, although both factored in. Not just the human touch aspect either, event though that had been sorely lacking for a while too. It was having him back. It was having Steve's arms wrapped safely around him. A confirmation, a promise, a seal. Now he could just peaceably let go of everything for a time.

 

"Steve." Okay, no, not let go of _everything,_ not literally, but he was trying.

 

"Hm?"

 

"Thanks for telling me about my parents." It was easier to talk about things safe and snuggly like this, and on his way to the merry land of the half-asleep. "I'm not even being sarcastic, by the way. It helped. It let the puss out." Which was, yeah, probably not very comprehensible unless you lived in his head.

 

There was a pause. He felt Steve's warm breath on his scalp for a second like – and he must be going completely crazy, but almost like a tiny air kiss just above his head.

 

"Just don't jump in front of any more bullets or rays or whatever."

 

"Aw, come on," Tony murmured into his chest. "You did the same. I just had better aim."

 

"You weren't supposed to be there at all."

 

"No. But I was, wasn't I."

 

"Tony." Steve shifted slightly. "I'm so sorry. You know that, right?"

 

"I know. I'm sorry too. And if I hadn't been such a jackass we might have had this talk a long time ago." That admission was another part of letting go of something that had been latching on him for months, like a giant tick.

 

"Maybe you weren't ready," Steve said.

 

"No, but do I really need to be rebooted to thirty years ago in order to be able to do it?"

 

"Apparently?"

 

"Shut up," Tony murmured. "You owe me _Back to the Future Three_ , by the way."

 

"Owe you? You made me watch it _twice_ , back when. And _then_ I watched it again with you last week."

 

"Yeah, but we didn't finish. We fell asleep. Can't leave that movie unfinished."

 

"Oh? I expect we have to restart from the beginning too?"

 

"Is there any other way to watch it?"

 

That was exactly what they did. Tony smiled to himself and let himself be enveloped in the familiar voice of Christopher Lloyd and the familiar snugness and comfort of Steve's arms, and he could already feel his eyelids growing heavy, and _shit, am I for real? I'm dying from mortification tomorrow. Might just as well make an appointment._ But, right then, it didn't matter so much.

 

"Is this really okay?" he whispered, letting go of his thought-strings one by one and feeling lighter with every snap. "Can I actually stay?"

 

Steve shifted him closer. "For as long as you want to."

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Anything medical and sciency in this is bull.
> 
> The war council parts make no sense whatsoever. I copied dialogue lines in part from [here](http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/pathways/firstworldwar/transcripts/first_world_war/allied_supreme.htm); I made it sound too complicated and nonsensical on purpose, sort of, to convey Tony's difficulties in following the convo.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://the-vorkosigan.tumblr.com/) (if you want to, that is; otherwise don't :p).


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